


Pixie Dust

by Zomb13Cat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zomb13Cat/pseuds/Zomb13Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there’s one thing that Dean hates almost as much as Witches it’s the fay: gnomes, brownies, sprites, and yes pixies, those smug little bastards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pixie Dust

**Author's Note:**

> I’d never had any intention in writing a Sex!Pollen fic. It’d never even crossed my mind. And then SDGirl over at tumblr came up with an idea that pretty much melted my brain. So this is all her fault.

The cave is dark and dank, filled with the sickly sweet smell of moldy earth and rotten vegetation.  The musty air around them is unnaturally warm and heavy, pressing down and causing clothing to cling uncomfortably to skin.  Dean’s boots sink into the soggy ground, making his movements sluggish and uncoordinated.  Sam’s a few feet behind him lighting the way with a flashlight and clutching a red plastic gas can.  Dean’s footing slips causing him to stumble, swing his machete wildly and tear a pretty sizable hole into the arm of his sturdy, green jacket. 

“Fuckin’ Pixies” He growls.

If there’s one thing that Dean hates almost as much as Witches it’s the fay: gnomes, brownies, sprites, and yes _pixies_ , those smug little bastards. 

“You okay?”  Sam asks as Dean shrugs out of his Jacket.

“Peachy”  He answers trying to keep his frustration in check, after all it’s not Sam’s fault that they’re stuck in the middle of some national park tracking down a nest of rogue fairy folk that have been infecting hikers with something that makes them go crazy, and run away, only to be found dead –completely naked and with some pretty interesting chaffing- days later. 

“I think I see something.”  Sam moves past him shining his light into a small grove in the rock wall.  It takes a few moments for Dean to realize what he’s looking at, make sense of the half dozen or so tiny, tea colored, bodies draped over each other and sleeping peacefully.  They’re completely naked, with rounded little bodies, plump little faces, and pointed little ears, and they’re… cute.  _Why’d the have to be fuckin’ cute?_   Now don’t get him wrong, Dean’s still totally gonna gank the suckers.  That doesn’t mean he’s not gonna feel at least a little bit bad about it, like killing a bunny. 

He signals for Sam to have the Gas can ready as he pulls out his trusty lighter and quietly flicks it open.  The flame sparks alive on the second try and they inch closer to the slumbering balls of murder.  One of the smaller Pixies, the one tucked between the arms of one and under the legs of another, stirs and opens its large amber eyes.  It blinks twice, focuses its gaze on Dean and smiles almost angelically.  For a moment Dean is stunned, frozen in his spot at a loss of what to do, as it crawls out from in between its nest mates. 

“Dean!” Sam pushes him out of the way just as the thing giggles and blows out a cloud of sparkling, golden dust that flutters and dissipates in the spot he was standing at not seconds earlier. 

“Fuck.” Dean tries to react quickly but all the other pixies are already awake.  They float through the air like a swarm of dust colored hummingbirds; giggling and spewing out clouds of glittering, gold powder which whirlwinds over their heads.  The little one smiles mischievously; a row of perfect, gleaming white teeth and pink gums; and winks at him before turning its attention towards Sam and tittering.  The rest of them follow suit, swirling around him and funneling the sprinkling cloud onto him with gleeful little laughs.  “Sam!”  Dean yells swatting with his machete at the air around his brother but not managing to connect with anything.  “Leave ‘im _alone_ you little sons of bitches.”  The cloud condenses and separates into thin golden ribbons that wrap around Sam, melt into his skin and crawl up his nose, into his mouth and down his throat.  “ _Sammy”_. 

 Sam lets out a final deafening gasp as the last of the powder disappears inside him, and collapses onto the floor.  The little one flies into Dean’s face, chortles, and pecks him on the nose before it disappears with a sudden flash of light and a crystal clear _clink._

“Sam?”  Dean crouches down next to his brother’s prone body and carefully cups his face, afraid to move him but unable not to touch him. 

“Dean?”  Sam voice is thick and hoarse as his eyes flutter open to reveal wide blown pupils.  “I feel funny.”

“Yeah.” He can’t help huff out in relief.  “You’re high off of pixie dust.”

“Fuckin’ Pixies.”  He mutters trying to stand up, but falling into Dean’s space instead. 

Dean swings Sam’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him to his feet.  “Let’s get you out of here.  Can you walk?”

“Think so.”  Sam murmurs pressing his face into Dean’s neck.  “Dean, I’m really warm.”  Sam’s breath feels scalding hot as they slowly make their way through the steep, muddy inclines of the cave in the dark.  Sam’s skin is balmy, his body a heavy, firm weight pressing into his side, as Dean tries to focus on the path ahead and _not_ the feel of Sam’s nose dragging over his jaw or the flutter of Sam’s lashes against his skin.    They finally make it outside, the bright, cheery late day sunlight blinding Dean momentarily, making his pupils contract painfully. 

He practically runs to the Impala, pulls the passenger side door open and dumps his younger brother’s pliant body into the seat with an indignant little _oomph_ and tries to ignore the funny little flip his stomach does at the loss of contact. 

Dean rounds the car, pull out the old metal first aid kit and a couple bottles of water out of the trunk, and clambers into the driver’s side.  Inside the car Sam’s out of his jacket, breathing heavily, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his plaid button-up shirt. 

“What are you doin’?”

“I’m really _hot_ ”  Sam huffs out, finally giving up on the buttons and just tugging off the offending article of clothing.  His white undershirt –so thin with wear its almost transparent- rides up with the motion leaving Sam’s lean, tan torso exposed.  He hands Sam one of the bottles of water, watches the bob of his Adam’s apple with each swallow as he greedily gulps it down in one go.  Dean dampens an old rag with the contents of his own water bottle, and uses it to mop up some of the sweat and grime from Sam’s fevered skin.  Sam’s eyes flicker closed and he arches into the contact. 

Sam’s face is flushed, his breath is heavy, his lips red and swollen, and when his eyelids flutter open, his eyes are glossy and pupils blown wide.  He looks… Well he looks gorgeous- not that Dean would admit that. To anyone. _Ever._   And then it finally dawns on him.

“Mother _fucking_ Pixies!”  He slams his palm against the steering wheel in anger.

“What?”  Sam looks confused, innocent, and inviting all at once.  _God Damn it!_

“It was _sex pollen,_ Sam.”  He growls out.  “Sex pixie dust.” He amends. “What-thefuck-ever.  We need to get you out of here.”  He turns the key in the ignition and peals out of the small clearing like a bat out of hell, tires screeching and spraying gravel every which way behind them. 

Sam leans his head against the cool glass of the window as they merge into the highway, shivers and begins unbuttoning his pants.  “I’m not gonna make it.”  He exhales arching off of the seat to pull them completely off.

“Yes you are, Sam.  We’re twenty minutes away.”  He tries to keep his voice calm and reassuring.  “We’ll get into town. Find you a girl.  Take care of your issues.  And then we’ll get a beer.  Alright?  You just gotta hold on a little longer.”

“I don’t think I can.”  Sam whines, absentmindedly running a hand up and down his thigh.  There’s a tent pitching in his boxers, so obvious that for a moment Dean imagines boy scouts showing up and demanding merit badges.  “My insides feel like they’re on fire.”  Sam moans voice so wanton it makes Dean’s cock twitch.  “It can’t be a girl.”  Sam’s gasps and stutters as he finally palms himself through the flimsy material of his boxer shorts.  “It’s _inside_ me.”  Dean’s stomach plummets at the sudden realization.  His whole body clenches angrily at the thought of some random _guy’s_ hands –or worse- all over _his_ younger brother.  At some stranger touching and kissing and tasting _his_ Sam.  “ _It’s gotta be you.”_   It takes all of Dean’s strength of will not to slam on the breaks.

“H-wha-n?”  English.  Dean’s pretty sure he knows _some_ , but right now he’ll be damned if can remember even single syllabled words.   

“Want it to be you, Dean.”  Sam rubs his palm over the bulge in his underwear, the fabric is soaking wet, clinging to the head of his dick and – Dean should really stop checking out his little brother’s junk.  “Don’t trust anyone else.  Need it _._ ”  Sam inches closer, crowds into Dean’s space.  His body radiating a deep, insidious heat that makes it difficult for Dean to breathe.  “ _Please_ Dean.  _Need you._ ”  In a flash, Sam’s head is in his lap mouthing at Dean’s own traitorous hard-on.  Dean jerks and swerves out of his lane at the shock.  The few cars around them honk at his erratic behavior. 

“Sammy. No. Don’t-“ - _stop._ He twines his fingers into the silky strands of Sam’s hair and tries to pull him off.  Tries not to focus on the wet warmth seeping through the fabric all the way down to his bones; or the firm pressure of his brothers mouth dragging over the length of his cock; or the obscene flash of Sam’s pink tongue painting dark, damp trails over the denim of his jeans; and _especially not_ on just how _damn good_ it all _feels_. 

The few cars behind them pick up their speed and pass them, their drivers flicking odd, confused glances in their direction.  And that’s when Dean sees the tiny, unmistakable silhouette of a Highway patrol man, on his rearview mirror.  Dean steels his face, pushes Sam’s head deeper into his lap, suppresses the urge to buck up into the pressure, and hopes to god that Eric Estrada doesn’t peek inside when he passes the impala. 

Sam lets out pleased little noises that vibrate against Dean’s prick, as his fingers deftly unbutton his Jeans, pull down the zipper, and finally free it from its confinement.  Dean hisses as his cock is enveloped in molten slickness.  The motorcycle inches closer and then drives past them and Dean doesn’t know what’s worse: that they could’ve been caught by the law committing incest in a car with a trunk full fake IDs and a militia worthy arsenal; Or the fact that he doesn’t really care because of the way Sam’s velvety tongue is lapping at the head of his cock, tip dipping at the slit. 

Sam swallows down around him, muscles of his throat fluttering and constricting around the head of his cock _just right._   He tugs rapidly at his own dick, having somehow gotten rid of his underwear without Dean noticing, and runs his fingers over the thick beads of precome glistening at the tip.  He lets go of his with a filthy little _hmm_ , reaches behind himself and sinks two precome slick fingers into himself. 

“ _Fuck.”_ Dean growls as he feels the build of pressure beginning at his balls.  He pulls over the first chance he gets, a little flat area of land tucked behind a few mossy trees and wild hedges.  He turns off the car, flings the door open, and practically jumps out, tries to tuck himself back into his pants, which isn’t easy when you’re so hard you could hammer nails. 

“Please. Dean.  Need you.  So bad.”  Sam begs from inside the car, big hazel eyes wide and a glazed over.  His face is wet and messy with saliva and precome, lips so red they’re practically glowing, voice completely raw and fucked out.  And _fuck_ if that’s just not the _hottest_ thing Dean’s ever been privy to witness. 

Dean cups at the back of his own head confused and at a panic.  Sam’s in the back seat completely naked, moaning and writhing, touching himself and begging.  Fuck. Just _fuck._

Sam’s too far gone.  Past the point of no return and they’re out of time.  Dean knows this.  Knows there’s only one solution.  They either do this or Sam burns out. 

_Motherfucking cocksucking Pixies!_

Dean kicks off his shoes, pulls off his T-shirt, and pulls open the door.  He climbs in over a delirious Sam who just whispers “Dean?” in a voice so damn sexy that against all odds Dean’s dick gets even _harder_. 

“It’s alright, Sammy.  I gotcha.” He riffles through their first aid kit, spills out the butterfly bandages and tubes of Neosporin, until he finds the small little jar of Vaseline.  He coats his fingers in the pale, buttery substance and carefully runs them over the rim of Sam’s clenching hole, presses in against the resistance.  Sam arches off of the seat and Dean has to close his eyes to keep control.  If this is what Sam feels like on his fingers, _oh god._ Dean kicks off his Jeans, slicks himself up, and takes hold of Sam’s hips to position himself better.  Sam’s skin is so hot against his, that he wonders how it is that they don’t just spontaneously combust.  Dean guides himself to Sam’s entrance, feels the small ring of muscle clench and then give against the blunt pressure of the head of his cock.  He pushes all the way in with a guttural groan.  Sam is scorching hot and so _tight_ it almost stings, squeezes around him so perfectly that Dean knows he’s not going to last long. 

“Yeah. Fuck. God. Yes.”  Sam wraps his legs around Dean, pulls him in deeper and clenches around him.  Dean thrusts into him slow and deep; pulls out almost all the way, the drag of skin on skin igniting every nerve ending in his body; and pushes back in picking up the pace. 

“Fuck, Sammy.  You feel so good.”  His own voice sounds almost broken. 

“Harder.”  Sam demands, rolling his hips in sync with Dean’s rhythm. 

“Pushy little bitch.”  Dean huffs out a laugh as he slams into Sam angling enough to hit that little spot of nerves that has him arching off the seat and at a loss for breath.

“Jerk.”  Sam pants out hot as sin and twice as satisfying as he wraps a large palm over the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him in for a deep, filthy kiss.  Sam tastes sweet as he fucks his tongue in and out of Dean’s mouth.  The kiss is so perfect and torrid that for a moment Dean almost forgets what they’re actually doing.  One more prod to Sam’s sweet spot has him spurting wet and thick between their bodies, clenching vice tight over Dean’s sensitive cock and pulling him over the edge.  Dean comes like a punch to the gut slamming into Sam and painting his insides with his sweltering release. 

Dean tries to settle his heaving chest as his eyes glimmer open and he stares at his little brother lying underneath him.  Sam’s breath is quick but steady, and his face is ruddy with afterglow but no longer fevered.  “Hey” Sam whispers almost shyly, flicks his gaze away from Dean’s, looks vulnerable and exposed. 

Dean is hit suddenly by a wave of culpability.  He peals himself off of his baby brother; his chest constricting at Sam’s wince when he pulls out with a lewd wet noise; the loss of contact is harsh and unsettling as he steps out of the car.  He takes a few steps, the cold, moist ground littered with rocks and twigs, hurting his bare feet.

“Dean?”  He turns when he feels Sam’s fingertips graze against his bare shoulder. 

Sam is completely naked; filthy and wrecked; covered in come, Dean’s and his own; And Dean hates himself for loving that.  He hates that the sight of it alone is enough to make his cock twitch with renewed interest.  Dean hates that it was _he_ who ruined Sam, and that he loved every single second of it.  “I don’t blame you if you hate me.”  He lets out.  “I just couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“I don’t hate you Dean.”  Sam lowers his gaze.  “Not after you just gave me what I wanted.”  He looks self-conscious.  “I’m glad it was you.”

Dean’s heart thumps in his chest as he steps closer to Sam.  “That was just the pixie dust.”

“No.” Sam scowls, and Dean’s gotta admit that it’s one of the prettiest things he’s ever seen.  “I’ve always wanted it.”  He crowds into Sam, presses him against the sun warmed metal of the impala.

“You sure about this?”

Sam nods and it takes a few moments for his voice to finally come out. “Yes”  And holy fuck, if it isn’t music to Dean’s ears.

“Okay then.”  He nuzzles into Sam’s neck, nipping at the skin and tasting the salt and sweat. 

“What about the pixies?”  Sam asks, running blunt fingernails down Dean’s back.

“We’ll deal with them later.”  Dean husks against Sam’s ear.  “I figure we owe them a fruit basket.”

 


End file.
